Losing It
by Merisha
Summary: Sam’s demons get the best of him. Rated T because this is the first story I've ever written with lots and lots of vile horrible language and it's all Phoebe's fault - grin.


**Losing it**

Sam's demons get the best of him.

**Notes:** This little one-shot was sitting in the vault of things I never wanted to upload. But after reviewing it again, and PADavis' amazing beta work and advice, here it is. This is not like any of my other stories. It's much darker and there is a lot of cussing. But if you'll forgive me that, then please enjoy! And you can blame her that it's even here at all - ROFL ;)

**Warning:** "Rated T because this is the first story I've ever written with lots and lots of vile horrible language and it's all Phoebe's fault." ;)

* * *

Shit!

You're getting seriously agro with your brother. I mean, you can take a lot of shit, god knows you already have, but he seems to have a real knack for throwing just the right amount of it your way. Usually you'd manage to ignore him, just brush it off, tease back … but lately you've been feeling a deep unrest, unexplainable anger … goddamn resentment. So today. Today's different.

Today, your wise ass, one-liner, pain in the ass, older sibling is sticking it to you good. And you're more irritated then you have the right to be, but it's been an insufferably long week, and you're tired, hell, bone friggin' weary … of your brother, and your dad's endless obsessive hunting. He's on the scent again of some godforsaken creature, chasing another one down for what feels like the thousandth time this friggin' month alone … well, lets just say, you've had your fill. You've reached capacity.

You really just need some quality time alone. Hell, you'd even borrow one of your brothers dog-eared skin-mag's just to release some of the pent up tension, if you could just get _five minutes_ to yourself in the bathroom. But that's just a pipe dream, 'specially when you're sharing close quarters, every friggin second of every friggin day, with Dean. You can't even piss in peace, let alone jerk-off.

He pushes at you again, dancing in front of you like a professional boxer, light on his feet, a friggin irritating smirk on his overly handsome face. God, if you weren't such a calm, generally well rounded and collected person, you'd probably knock that particular smirk right into next week, no charge. But instead you try to ignore him … again … trying to concentrate on your book. Cause god knows how you're actually supposed to pass high school with some sort of education, when you have this - and you look around in disgust at the 'sunshine daisy' motel room – passing for your family life.

Fuck!

He fucking pokes at you, _again_. One fucking finger digging too sharply into your shoulder, goading you … just begging for a response. And, goddamit, if you don't want to give it to him right now, right this fucking instant. Your hand fists around the corner of the book … but you play it cool, giving him a warning look … that seems, rather fucking unbelievably, to act as an invitation instead of a deterrent. He just chuckles at your death glare, and pokes at you again.

"Come on, Sammy … Sammy bean … whatyasay … time for a little practice … need to knock some of that Samantha attitude outta you …"

And that's fucking it … the fucking final straw … cause fuck … you've tried everything, and he won't fucking listen, and he won't fucking stop … and quite frankly, if he doesn't want to listen, then he sure as hell can feel.

"It's SAM you fucking moron!"

Your book is slammed shut, and you're out of your chair so quickly, that the surprise doesn't even get a chance to register on his dumb-ass face.

You tackle him low, it's a dirty move, but you feel a sense of satisfaction hearing the shocked swoosh of air as you knock the breath right out of him, and you're both on the floor. You duck and roll and you manage to get out of his grasp, smirking now at his look of complete disgust and anger. And what fucking right does he have to feel that? You shake your head at his attitude, sussing him out again.

Yeah, that's it, you wanted it, come and get it.

You sweep your leg, knocking him off his unsteady feet as he attempts to stand, sending him flat onto his back. You're crouched, ready to spring into action again. He looks at you, frowning deeply, then grimaces as he sits up.

"Fuck, Sam … what the hell is wrong with you, man?"

"Just practicing … what, can't take what I'm dishing?"

He snorts. You try to push down the volcanic rage threatening to take over. You have no idea why you're so fucking angry, but you watch him with predatory interest as he gets to his feet slowly, almost painfully. Before you can register it, he hits out with lightning speed, getting you painfully in the solar plexus before he flips you over with ease, and twists your arm behind your back.

"OW … FUCK!"

He's chuckling at that and takes a second longer than is necessary to get off you, and fuck, if that isn't pissing you off majorly. Then, he has the balls to move away, bouncing on his toes again, waving his hands towards himself, in a 'bring-it-on' fashion.

You fly at him then, punching, blocking, rolling, ducking … but he's good, he's better than good, better than you … and he has you twisted like a fucking pretzel, his arms locked around your neck in a sleeper hold as you struggle to breathe. The jerk!

"Is that the best you've got, princess? You need to pay more attention in your 'ballet' lessons."

He chuckles again, and you see red. Okay … now you're not just fucking pissed, you are seriously _royally_ fucking pissed.

And before you can stop yourself, your palm comes up, bent back, hitting Dean under the chin with practiced precision, and with such intensity the shock wave runs up your arm into your shoulder. You watch, stunned, as he's pushed right off his feet, flying up and backwards, his lip splitting and sending a bloody red arc spraying from his mouth. Your brain can't register what you've just done. You've actually hurt him.

You hit out in anger, and fuck, if that isn't the first rule, 'don't ever hit out in anger'. So you weren't checking your surroundings, and the sickening crack of Dean's skull hitting the air conditioner nearly stops your heart.

Your body moves forward instinctively, trying to minimize any more damage, trying to break the fall. You've got your arms around his waist and under his arms even as his eyes close, and he slumps lifelessly forward into your collapsing embrace.

You look at him stupidly for a moment. I mean fuck. Why are his eyes closed? Why is there blood everywhere? Why the fuck is he lying so still and so pale in your arms? Shaking. You're fucking shaking … looking at him, your brother who was just assing around, your brother who'd do anything for you in a second, your friggin' brother who's looked after you your whole fucking ungrateful life.

Things happen in a blur after that. Your hand is shaking so bad it's hard to call the ambulance, its shaking as you wait with your brother, who doesn't move … even though you beg him, plead, scream, fucking cry. Your hands shake during the whole life-shortening forty minutes before you finally hear the knock on the door. You're still shaking as they as they strap him onto a gurney.

You're even shaking as you sit in the hospital waiting room, waiting to hear about hemorrhages and concussions and brain swelling. And you're so fucking angry at yourself. You're sitting, just looking at your hands like they belong to someone else, cause your hands would never hurt Dean.

When Dad finally bursts through the doors and starts asking frantic questions, you barely mumble in reply. He's in your face, shouting … and you wish to god he would just punch you. Hit you. You won't even fight back. You deserve this. You deserve so much worse.

And finally, they let you see him. Dad's stalked off somewhere to find coffee, and you're alone when they ask for next-of-kin. So you follow them … follow them down white corridors … until you get to his room.

You try to build up the courage you don't have … and, shit … you're expecting a lot, but you're not expecting this. He's lying so still on a bed that looks far too big. There are machines and wires … beeps and swooshes … all dismissed in favor of the pale figure laying there. You collapse in the chair next to him, and the world around you fades to worthless nothingness. People move in, out, and around you, checking charts, adjusting equipment. Dad comes in, pushing a scorching cup of coffee into your ice cold hands, giving you a look that destroys your soul. And you don't know how life is managing to carry on when your world is ending.

You sit like that, oblivious to the day-to-day workings around you. Just watching that face. Dark lashes fringing pale skin. The bright red slash across his bottom lip. But mostly, you watch his eyes … waiting for them to move, to show some sign that he's finally waking.

It takes two full days.

He's finally alert. He smiles at you, then. A small smile, complementing the look in those eyes that you've memorized, eyes that are fucking radiating understanding and forgiveness … and fuck that, you're angry all over again, at him, at yourself … how can he forgive you? You nearly killed him, and he looks at you like you're the most precious thing in his life? Goddamn it.

You jump out of your uncomfortable chair when you see his breath hitching, those eyes fluttering closed as they roll back up into his head. He starts convulsing, alarms echoing, and you fucking scream … cause you've never been this scared … never … even though you've been on millions of hunts, been in all kinds of danger, had all kinds of near death experiences … this is different … this is your fault … you may just have killed your brother and that, that just isn't a fucking condition you can live with.

You finally get it. You get it that your brother would actually die. For. You. Not some lame-ass promise made as an excuse for love, for him it's an actual fucking reality … he'd die … D I E … for you. And it's the sickest thing you can imagine.

You want to throw up at that responsibility … put on your shoulders without your fucking permission. You don't want your brother's life in your hands, on your hands … you can barely manage looking out for yourself.

But that's just the goddamn Winchester way, now isn't it. Another fucked up idea of the worthiness of life, thanks to a father that's fucking obsessed with the thing that killed his wife. Probably some fucked up thing that's actually just living in his fucked up imagination.

It takes another two full days for them to confirm that Dean'll actually make it, that there wasn't any permanent damage. That he's alive and staying that way.

But you continue your vigil. Not knowing how to live with what you've done. Not knowing how to handle this life that you were born to. A life that is changing you, somehow. Changing you into something worse than what you hunt. And it hits you in the face, you finally know, you finally realize, that this isn't what you want for yourself. And you need to protect your brother, even if it breaks his heart. Protect him from what you're becoming. You need to get out. You have to get out.

It's the only way to save them … save yourself … before you lose it.

_**Fin**_


End file.
